


in sickness, in health, but mostly for safety

by Maiden_of_the_Moon



Series: love is colder than death au [2]
Category: Bartimaeus - Jonathan Stroud
Genre: Alternate Universe - Assassins & Hitmen, Alternate Universe - Human, Bad Puns, Bartimaeus wants so badly to be a good boyfriend, Fanfiction of Fanfiction, Fluff and Humor, He's trying guys, M/M, Mild Hurt/Comfort, Sexual Humor
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-12 10:47:31
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22124842
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maiden_of_the_Moon/pseuds/Maiden_of_the_Moon
Summary: The problem— such as it is—, is that once Bartimaeusstartskissing Nathaniel, he simply does not want tostop.[A fanfic for izzybusiness' "love is colder than death"]
Relationships: Bartimaeus/Nathaniel (Bartimaeus)
Series: love is colder than death au [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1638877
Comments: 4
Kudos: 19





	in sickness, in health, but mostly for safety

**Author's Note:**

  * For [izzybusiness](https://archiveofourown.org/users/izzybusiness/gifts).
  * Inspired by [love is colder than death](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21141176) by [izzybusiness](https://archiveofourown.org/users/izzybusiness/pseuds/izzybusiness). 

> _Disclaimer:_ No.
> 
> _Author’s Note:_ I have a lot of residual feelings in the wake of “love is,” okay? 
> 
> _Warnings:_ Crap editing. Bad jokes. Familiar puns. That same shout-out to jessthereckless. Spoilers for chapter two of “love is colder than death.” I’ve always pictured “love is”-Bart as the “handsome young ([amethyst necklace wearing](https://www.crystalvaults.com/crystal-encyclopedia/amethyst)) Sumerian” predominantly featured in “Ring of Solomon.” Speaking of Bart, is he uncharacteristically soft in this? The world may never know. 
> 
> Title taken from the wedding vows that I am _convinced_ these idiots will one day use.

\---

_Bartimaeus wants to kiss him. Has wanted to for longer than he cares to admit._

_So he does._

\--

in sickness, in health, but mostly for safety

\--

The problem— such as it is—, is that once Bartimaeus _starts_, he simply does not want to _stop_. The thought pains him. The idea baffles. For all intents and purposes, Nathaniel Underwood has proven himself to be the Pringles Can of Smooching: Bartimaeus can’t kiss him just once.

_Wait, no. That’s the motto for Lay’s._

Oh, man. He really, _really_ wants to "get Lay’s." As it were. 

But the hotel’s basement is genuinely disgusting, the wound in Nathaniel’s side is a matter of no small distress, and honestly, given the lies (or— after tonight— the spoilers?) that the guileless Ms. Piper has been spreading to the government that presently parties above them, well… Bartimaeus doesn’t want to imagine the smut that the rumor mill will be spewing come Monday if they keep to themselves down here for much longer. 

Besides which, Bartimaeus is a _man_. He has standards. He has pride. Maybe not excessive amounts of either, _but even still_— as a man with both standards and pride, he recognizes that the bar can only sink so low before it begins to look like he is actively attempting to bury it himself. Difficult through it might be to believe, he _does_ want to do this right. And while the DNA test he took told him he’s one hundred percent That Bitch, he _also_ had an x-ray done, and it showed at least _one_ romantic bone in his body. Christ, in the aftermath of this evening, it’s probably the singular part of him that isn’t damaged somehow.

So after seven minutes in a very hellish-looking version of Heaven, Bartimaeus— his pupils blown; his lips bruised; his breaths like the gossamer wisps that beget an all-consuming inferno— draws himself back from an equally needy/battered/gasping Nathanial. Noses brush, Eskimo-sweet; lashes flurry over soft, glazed eyes. _Fuck_, he wants to— but no, not now. Gossip, injuries. That nail sticking out of the wall looks like a case of tetanus waiting to happen. This isn’t the time or place. 

Though it takes a herculean effort, the assassin manages to loosen his hands in waves of disheveled black hair. 

…only to immediately cup Nathaniel’s cheeks and pull him in again, figuring that the third time will be the charm.

Probably.

-

(It’s not.)

-

“See? Aren’t you glad now that I know my way around your bathroom?”

Seated atop the porcelain throne, Nathaniel stares with befitting imperiality at the man who kneels before him. Each dab of rubbing alcohol turns his grimace into a thinner line. “I’m not yet so incapacitated that I couldn’t have just _told_ you where to find the first-aid kit,” he reasons, his dryness reassuringly familiar in moments that still feel so volatile, so malleable. So _new._

Bartimaeus smirks, mostly because that’s what his mouth is used to doing. Resting bastard face, that’s what he’s got. But even then, its sweep lacks its usual sharp edge when he refutes, “You might’ve been. I know plenty of people who’ve kicked it from wounds less serious than this.” 

He prods at the gash in Nathaniel’s side— partly to make a point, partly to test its depth and present levels of infection. It’s not bleeding anymore, and does not appear to require stitches, but he thinks it needs more than butterfly bandages. Gauze, then. Lots of gauze. A mummy’s worth. Except, unlike a mummy, Nathaniel won’t be dead. Of course. Obviously. 

_He’s fine, he’s okay, he’s all right._

“Ow!” Looking neither fine, okay, or all right, Nathaniel flinches back, smacking away Bartimaeus’ abuse. “Don’t do that, you cretin! You’ll make it worse!” he snaps. “Good God, your bedside manner is atrocious!” 

“Good thing I plan to be _in_ your bed, then, and not _beside_ it.” 

The quip escapes him— as most do— before he has time to consider its implications. In Bartimaeus’ opinion, things like “consequence” are usually of minimal concern, anyway.

Unfortunately, the key word here is “usually.” 

In the sudden silence, Bartimaeus’ gulp echoes, ricocheting off towering glass panes and pristine linoleum backsplashes. Dang. Is it just him, or are the acoustics granted by rain showers of uncommonly high quality? Especially when taking into account that he and Nathaniel are situated on the opposite side of the room.

Nathaniel wets his lips. Bartimaeus doesn’t stare. 

He does, however, watch from the corner of an averted eye.

“I see,” the politician mutters. As he does so, he gains a flush that worries Bartimaeus; coyness is endearing and all, but again: there’s a time and a place. At this time, Nathaniel needs that blood to be in numerous other, more life-sustaining places. 

But before Bartimaeus can figure out how to say as much, Nathaniel— the absolute idiot!— looks him square in the face and says, “That does sound like the… safe thing… for you to do.” 

_Oh Lord. Oh fuck._

Bartimaeus can taste the joke about “safety” and “sex” where it sits on his tongue. It tastes like crisps. Or other salty things. That he swallows it down is another joke half-made. 

_Time and place._ God dammit, time and place. 

Decidedly _not_ thinking about the feel of Nathaniel’s lips against his own, or how _other_ things might feel once he finally got his mouth on them, Bartimaeus sets his chin on a fist and tweaks his grin into a simper. “You know me, Natty-boy. Safety is my number one priority. And besides, it’s not like it’s really _your_ bed, is it? Hasn’t been _your_ bed for a while. Just like it hasn’t been _your_ house, or _your_ cupboard space, or _your_ toothbrush.” 

The face that Nathaniel pulls at this is truly one to behold. Had he been able to grab a picture of it, Bartimaeus would have made it his lock screen until the end of time. 

“You better have been kidding about that last one.” 

“_Et voila_. Never before has a dirty politician been so clean,” the assassin declares, cheerily ignoring Nathaniel’s panicked glances over at their toothbrush situation. (However brain damaged the night may have left him, it shouldn’t take Nathaniel terribly long to count to two.) But as Bartimaeus puts away tubes of disinfectant, caps the remains of the surgical spirit, and tosses a handful of used washcloths towards the hamper, he frowns and reassesses his charge. “…actually, I take that back. Never before has a dirty politician’s _wounds_ been so clean. The rest of you still needs some work. It’d be a waste of dressings to do you up when you’re so grimy.”

Indignation is, in many respects, a knee-jerk reaction for Nathaniel; it’s actually quite comforting to see him draw himself up when Bartimaeus taps that nerve. Like another box a doctor can tic during an exam. That the kid’s eyes are working, too, is also a relief: Nathaniel glances down at his gore-stained, dust-streaked, dirt-smeared body and cringes in begrudging acknowledgement. 

“Yes, well. You’re hardly any better looking yourself,” he counters, indicating Bartimaeus’ torn green vest and no-longer-frilled shirt. Which, c’mon. Is hardly an argument at all. Those fashion monstrosities had been beyond saving from the day of their conception. 

Nevertheless, Bartimaeus scoffs. “That’s a blatant lie, and we both know it,” he sniffs, framing his bruised face with his hands. “I’m beautiful, no matter what they say. Words can’t bring me down. Nor pipe bombs. Nor Honorious.” 

“How about a chair? I’ve had good luck with those tonight.”

“No more WWE Smackdown moves until I’m satisfied that your organs won’t start dropping out,” Bartimaeus decrees, giving Nathaniel’s head the most belittling scrub that one can bestow after a night of delivering canapés. And having romantic epiphanies. And physical ones. 

_Time and place, time and place_. Not now, not here, not yet. Standards and pride. The bar. The heart and the dick can want what they want, but Bartimaeus is slave to neither; he is completely capable of prioritizing Nathaniel’s health and safety, despite having almost needed a crowbar to separate their bodies in the probably-asbestos-filled hotel basement. 

_Time and place_. Time and place and what’s truly important. _Use your words, Bartimaeus. Use your actions_. Communication is integral in all of its forms. He knows the message he wants to convey. _So convey it._

He can do this. 

“Now then,” Bartimaeus says, “don’t get overly excited, buckaroo, or you’ll bleed out faster, but— shall we shower together?” 

It’s like watching a kindergartener play with paint. Nathaniel’s face goes white and scarlet simultaneously, the colors mixing on his cheeks to become an agreeable, if splotchy pink. Regrettably, the accompanying headrush does the boy no favors; he sways—a dangerous thing to do on a toilet lid—, and is only saved from a full cardiac arrest by the shock of having Bartimaeus’ hands suddenly upon him.

“Woah…!” Bartimaeus frowns, disapproving, as he steadies Nathaniel by the scrawny shoulders. “I gave you _one_ job there, Nat. Right, well. You’re clearly extra useless tonight, so I’ll—” 

“No!” The answer— the yelp— comes after an embarrassing delay. Nathaniel’s ears look like they’re going to scorch off the sides of his face. Probably his _whole_ face, actually, after they ignite his bangs. Would serve him right for not trimming them. “No. No, no, no. _No_. No.” 

“Christ, tell me how you really feel, Natty.”

“I am more than capable of getting cleaned up on my own,” Nathaniel insists, voice cracking in a manner that does not instill great confidence in Bartimaeus. Apprehension furrows the assassin’s brow; he cants closer to inspect eyes that appear _penetratingly_ blue, surrounded as they are by so much redness. Really makes the color pop, that redness. It would be rather pretty if it wasn’t so worrisome. And exasperating. “Stop looking at me like that, Bartimaeus. I don’t need your help to… I’m fine.” 

“Kid, let’s be real, here. You’re hurt. There’s no shame in needing—”

“But I _don’t_ need it,” Nathaniel bites back. The heat of his mortification presses against Bartimaeus with all the force of a shoving hand; his actual hands—thinner, and weaker, and gentler— fall atop the backs of Bartimaeus’ and squeeze. “Look,” he mumbles, “I’m grateful for your help thus far. Thank you. But I’m not an invalid yet. And frankly, you need to go wash up, yourself. Have you seen the state of _these?_” 

With a delicate tug, Nathaniel peels Bartimaeus’ palms off of his shoulders. Bartimaeus is about to protest that his hands are pristine— _obviously_ he had washed them before tending to Nathaniel’s injuries; this isn’t his first rodeo— when he notices lingering traces of filth and fluid caught upon his calluses. Because oh, yeah. Tending to hurt people is a dirty business in itself. 

“Any bandage that comes within a meter of you will become a breeding ground for infection,” Nathaniel drones, as if unimpressed by the hands that he cradles. It’s a ruse blown by a tremble— by the thumbs that trace twin heartlines. “So go on. We’ll meet in _our_ bedroom for plasters and such in thirty.”

Smiling slightly, Nathaniel folds his fingers around Bartimaeus’ and lays them against the assassin’s chest, as though he were returning them. But if his own should linger there, too, for longer than is strictly necessary, well. Neither feels the need to comment about it. 

Choking on the heart he discovers lodged in his throat, Bartimaeus croaks, “It’s a date.”

-

“Jesus—!” Nathaniel yelps, scrambling for the doorframe in a last-ditch effort to keep from falling flat on his face. Clinging dampness and residual soap don’t help much in that endeavor; luckily, the one who he had tripped over does.

“Now, now. I keep telling you, ‘Bartimaeus’ is fine,” the assassin insists, returning to his slump against the wall after Nathaniel successfully rediscovers his center of gravity. “And watch your language, buddy, or I’ll send you back in there to wash your mouth out, too.” 

Towel gripped around his waist, hair plastered to his brow, Nathaniel both ignores and scrutinizes Bartimaeus, who is sitting directly outside the master bathroom. He takes in Bartimaeus’ slouch, his aura of nonchalance. He basically steps in the puddle that he is dripping onto the carpet. 

“And you said that _I_ couldn’t ‘do one job,’” Nathaniel grumbles. It earns him an offended gasp. 

“What, did you take out your contacts? I’m clean! Look at me!” Demonstratively, the assassin plucks at his newly-donned sweatpants, shakes his sodden ringlets. He overstretches the front of his _Guns and Roses_ t-shirt, which threatens the integrity of the tears already worn into its hems. “What could you _possibly_ have to complain about?” 

If Nathaniel’s answering snort echoes, it’s because he has reached briefly back into the bathroom. “I’m fairly certain,” he intones, reemerging with a second, ludicrously plush towel, “that we agreed on thirty minutes.” The aforesaid towel is tossed at Bartimaeus’ sopping head. “It’s barely been fifteen.”

And he has been sitting out here for eleven of those. Sue him. It’s not like it’s illegal to worry about the person you… don’t hate. Has Nathaniel not seen the statistics on bathroom-related injuries? 80% of all household falls are done in there. 235,000 people over the age of fifteen wind up in the A&E, and 14% of those have to be taken to the hospital. Really, what with everything that has happened tonight, Bartimaeus is just being prudent. 

Shut up. 

“So my shower was quick,” Bartimaeus dismisses, draping the chucked towel around his neck. “Big deal. The guest room doesn’t have a _rain shower_, Nat. Which means there’s no reason to dawdle in it, is there?”

“…indeed.” Then Nathaniel does it again. That _thing_ where he ignores and scrutinizes Bartimaeus at the same time. The intensity of his stare makes the assassin shift, uncomfortable, because he knows he’s not being looked at— he’s being _seen_. 

Understanding has begun to flicker, flame-bright, behind those blue, blue eyes, and it is not related to any miraculously gained insight of PHE data. 

On a separate note, Bartimaeus has never realized how _fascinating_ some of these holes in his shirt are. Really. This one looks a bit like Italy. 

“Bartimaeus.”

Bartimaeus grunts, wondering why this is still so tough when they had been making out like the leads in a Hallmark movie not two hours ago. “Yup?” 

“Straighten your legs.” 

He blinks. “Excuse me?” 

Even as he says it, surprise compels Bartimaeus to do as he’d been told. Which is just as well; the last thing this evening needs is knee or joint damage, and Nathaniel is already sitting himself in Bartimaeus’ lap. 

_Nathaniel_ is _sitting_ in _Bartimaeus’_ lap. Half of the blood in the assassin’s body drops like a rock— _like Nathaniel sitting in his lap, holy shit_— while the other half skyrockets into his head, because _Nathaniel is sitting in his lap_. 

Nathaniel, who is sitting in his lap, twists himself slightly, so his temple can rest against Bartimaeus’ collar. His blush blazes against Bartimaeus’ chest like a literal flame. He still wears nothing but his towel. 

_Also, he’s sitting in my lap_, Bartimaeus’ mind helpfully informs him. 

Falteringly, reverently, Bartimaeus wraps one arm around Nathaniel. Because he’s bare, you see. Clearly cold. Shivering. Beads of scented water cleave to the long, pale expanse of his back, magnifying stray moles. Bartimaeus can see his ribs. Good God, he could count the kid’s vertebra. You know, if he wanted to. 

In the quiet outside the bathroom, Bartimaeus does so, in the same way the pious might their prayers on rosary beads.

-

In an unexpected twist, Bartimaeus isn’t the only one thinking about jewelry.

“You always wear this,” Nathaniel comments a few minutes later, again proving himself an asset to the Department of Painfully Obvious Observation. “Why?” 

A faint pressure accentuates the question, its source a tug on the thin leather thong that hangs around Bartimaeus’ throat. He doesn’t need to do so, but Bartimaeus glances down all the same, noting that— curled as he is— Nathaniel’s hooded eyes are level with the token at the end of the cord. 

Slender fingers touch the crystal’s edge, but with such tentative care that the pendent does not so much as shift on Bartimaeus’ chest. The assassin deliberates.

“Well. I like to think of myself as a being of air and fire,” he says after a moment, in lofty tones of false bravado. It sounds practiced, even in his own ears. Nathaniel’s gaze tips upward, though his head does not move; his expression remains similarly fixed. Bartimaeus plows on, “And the ancients, Google tells me, called amethysts ‘Gems of Fire.’ So. I thought it fit. You know. Hashtag-aesthetic, etcetera.” 

Nathaniel’s hum is noncommittal. Unconvinced. Like someone who noticed that when Bartimaeus moved in, he did so blithely and with nothing of sentiment; that he cares as much about fashion as oil companies do global warming; that he would buy and abandon a car on the same day if it suited him; that he is so fickle, he doesn’t even boast a favorite weapon. 

And yet… 

“Where did you get it?” Nathaniel presses, because one doesn’t become a Minister by the tender age of twenty-two without learning to ask the right questions.

Bartimaeus hesitates. Then, carefully, admits, “…it was a gift.” 

“From who?” 

Nathaniel’s ear is flush to Bartimaeus’ heart. He can hear it— feel it— when it grows louder, its vigor directly correlated to the motionlessness of the rest of the assassin’s body. When Bartimaeus sighs, there is depth to the exhalation. Length too, and raggedness. “Someone that I… cared about. A long time ago.”

He doesn’t mention that this person died. 

He doesn’t need to. 

“It’s lovely,” Nathaniel compliments, a single finger sliding along the inverted obelisk. The assassin tries not to notice how the stone’s rich hues have been put to temporary shame by his contusions. Instead, he focuses on the way Nathaniel chews his bottom lip. “I…” 

“Yes?”

“…you’ll make fun of me.”

_Now, that’s interesting._

“Oh, go on. I’d do that anyway.” 

“Touché,” the politician wryly contends. Still, his hand lowers; he lets his lashes do the same. “…I think it was well chosen, that’s all. It suits you.” 

Well, he hadn’t been expecting that. Bartimaeus gawks at the top of Nathaniel’s head, rolling the flattery over in his mind. It suits him? It _suits_ him? “What?” he blurts. “Why do you think that?” 

Nathaniel shrugs. The friction of his shoulder rubs heat into Bartimaeus’ sternum. “For a start,” he drawls, “it’s common and cheap.” 

_…hm. All right_, the assassin concedes, _I should have seen that one coming._

“But,” his companion continues, in a tone of calm so forced that it could have been a victim in a hostage situation, “the Underwoods. They were into… frivolous things, you know— metaphysical nonsense and the like. New Age drivel. And as a result, I suppose… I’ve heard of amethysts being a stone for creativity. Passion. Intuition. And— though I hesitate to use the word— intelligence. Also… well,” he clears his throat, “for couples.” 

A beat. 

With fierce determination, Nathaniel hides himself more fully beneath Bartimaeus’ chin and pithily concludes, “So. Um. Yes.”

“…huh.” 

There is something particularly pensive about the way Bartimaeus next ponders the pendent, taking it up between a finger and his thumb. It isn’t an expensive piece, nor embellished beyond a coil of copper wire, but it is striking whenever its facets catch the light. It winks when turned.

“It’s also meant to be good for protection,” Bartimaeus adds. Distantly, as if speaking to himself. Except that he isn’t speaking to himself. When Bartimaeus speaks, it is to Nathaniel— a fact that he makes clear by dropping the necklace, amethyst and all, over Nathaniel’s head. “Which, now that I think about it, means you need it a lot more than me. Let’s be honest. _I_, at least, have a self-preservation instinct.”

The crystal swings, colliding with Nathaniel’s breast. He jolts. Squeaks, even, though Bartimaeus would never refer to the sound as such within the politician’s earshot. Not unless he was feeling exceptionally antagonistic.

He feels nothing of the sort, right now. Right now, he just feels fuzzy. Pleasantly so— _effervescent_, even, his belly full of champagne bubbles and his veins shimmering with stardust as with one hand Nathaniel clutches the gifted gem, and with the other he touches Bartimaeus’ cheek. 

The noise that Bartimaeus makes is _also_ not a squeak, thanks very much. 

As primly as he is able, Nathaniel moves, adjusting his left leg. He smooths the lay of his towel. He straightens, now _straddled_ across Bartimaeus’ lap, and solemnly regarding his would-be-killer.

_Time and place time and place holy hell he is_ straddling _me no nope time and place._ But then, the time and place have got to be right, don’t they, if Nathaniel is the one to choose them? _He is straddling me he is straddling me he_ in my lap _and_ straddling _me and—_

“Bartimaeus,” Nathaniel announces, “I am going to kiss you.” 

Bartimaeus’ heart immediately goes nova. His pupils follow. And his hands find themselves, as if by magic, on Nathaniel’s waist. 

“_Finally_,” he husks. “I was beginning to think you were waiting for a formal inv—”

He doesn’t even wait for the end of the sentence.

-

Bartimaeus cannot say if this is a God-gifted talent or a practiced skill, but Minister Nathaniel Underwood has the hips of a dashboard hula dancer, and he does not think it would be possible to love him more for it.

“Oh— oh _Christ_,” Bartimaeus groans, then curses, then _whines_, wheezing through a series of breathless staccato grunts. Eager fingers scramble up Nathaniel’s haunches. Shit, he’s probably leaving bruises. Is he leaving bruises? He can’t tell, can’t see, as Nathaniel’s towel remains in a tangle around his waist, pinned in place by the angles of their bodies. But fuck, _fuck_, Bartimaeus wants to leave bruises. He wants bruises of his own. He wants to bite and to be bitten, to still be finding marks from tonight a month from now. He wants to— 

Wait. 

Shit. 

_Marks from tonight._

Time. Place. _First-aid._

“_Ngh_… Nath— Nat, ple— _oh yes_, please, _please_ don’t stop,” Bartimaeus keens, knees digging into Nathaniel’s back. There are hands in his hair, scraping along his scalp. Toes curl in the carpet. He flicks his tongue out to speak, and _good God_, it is Nathaniel’s teeth that help him form the words. “But— ah-_ah_-also, we need t-to— we have to stop…!”

Dammit, of course _this_ would be the one time that Nathaniel actually _listens_ to him. 

“What’s wrong?” Nathaniel rasps, leaning back an inch. Two. Bartimaeus’ lizard brain does not approve of this, and so urges him close again by applying his thighs to the arch of Nathaniel’s spine. It sends a mixed message, probably. And if it doesn’t, the kisses he continues to nip into Nathaniel’s nape surely do. “Bartima…? _Oh_…”

“Gotta stop,” the assassin mumbles— mouths— mindlessly kneading at the round of Nathaniel’s bottom. He really, really wants to take Nathaniel up on all the times he’s told him to kiss his ass. But. _But._ “You need… taking care of…” 

“Yes, I agree, that’s why I—”

“I m-mean _medically_. Bandages,” Bartimaeus clarifies, a thought that he punctuates with an aborted upward thrust. _Jesus_. What is he, a teenager? Last he checked, he had bucketloads of self-control. Oodles of it. Restraint of every make and model comes in handy in his line of work— so where the hell had all of his gotten to? 

Dumb question. Easy answer: Nathaniel had dry-humped it out of him. Consider that already-low bar pile-driven into the ground. Fuck. All Bartimaeus wants is to do this _right_. So why is it so _hard?_

_See previous answer._

Clinging to the vestiges of his standards and the dregs of his pride, Bartimaeus presses near, girds his loins, and then… kind of girds his loins again, but in a less figurative sense. His poor loins. “Look. I just. We should… probably wait. Wait until you— that is. Since I… I don’t want to hurt you.” 

Timidly, but with emphasis, Bartimaeus locks his arms around Nathaniel. Possibly to keep him close. Possibly to keep him still. Possibly both. 

The amethyst digs into their flesh, their bones. Trembling hands card through Bartimaeus’ flattened curls. 

“…Bartimaeus,” Nathaniel says, calm, and patient, and with far more authority than one would expect from someone so naked, “there are an extraordinary number of things that I wish for you to do to me. But the very, very last of them is for you to put anything _on_ me.”

“Not even golden syrup?” Bartimaeus hears himself ask, because sometimes even he cannot make himself shut up. Shit. “Never mind, stick a pin in that. That point is—” 

“The _point_,” Nathaniel interrupts, looping his arms around Bartimaeus in turn, “is that I _am_ in pain, yes. Of a sort. And I _want_ you to help me feel better. I… need you to help me feel better. Please,” he concludes, with a quiet vulnerability that nearly decimates Bartimaeus’ resolve.

The assassin groans again, the sound half frustrated and half… well. Frustrated. Two different types of frustration. Both are very frustrating. He is very frustrated. In many ways. But—

(_“I suppose it’s because I trust you,”_ Nathaniel had said.)

“It’s just… I want you to keep trusting me,” Bartimaeus confesses, not realizing how wholeheartedly he means this until the words are tumbling out of him. They are heavy, so _heavy_ that he quakes. And the more that he does, the more words are dislodged, and the full of his own feelings hits him like a landslide, “I— Nathaniel, I want you to be safe, and to _feel_ safe, and… and to trust me. Always.” 

It seems like so much to ask. Maybe _too_ much. 

But Nathaniel tightens his embrace. 

“I will,” he vows. “Provided that you trust _me._” 

Oh.

_Oh._

“…you’ll tell me,” Bartimaeus whispers. Orders, more like: voice low, fingers gripping, his protective and possessive instincts at war within his chest. As far as he can tell, both sides seem to be winning, which doesn’t make sense. But then, feelings like this rarely do. “You’ll tell me. If I’m too fast, or too rough, or… or if I…” 

“Oh, please.” A scoff blusters Bartimaeus’ bangs as Nathaniel ducks low, hiding his grin against the assassin’s crown. “Have I ever had trouble telling you ‘no?’” 

Decent point. Looking back on their previous months together, Nathaniel has actually been quite good at saying ‘no;’ the issue has been Bartimaeus’ general inability to accept such a command being directed at him. But then— in his own defense— all previous issues have been _unimportant_ things, such as whether they should watch another episode of _Game of Thrones_ or adopt a dog. So really, his trepidation is understandable. 

Nonetheless, the assassin nods. “Okay,” he agrees. Then, in a matter befitting a person of his incredible virility and manliness, he nuzzles against Nathaniel’s temple. Brushes their noses together, a prelude to a kiss. 

Or a prelude to a prelude, as it were. 

“Okay, _but_,” Bartimaeus resumes, “fair’s fair, right? Right. So since we’re doing something _you_ want, we also get to do something _I_ want. Relationships are all about compromise.”

Perched atop Bartimaeus’ lap, with Bartimaeus’ hands upon his shoulders and Bartimaeus’ knees supporting his back, Nathaniel crosses incredulous arms. “Oh, _I’m_ sorry,” he laughs disparagingly, “are you _not_ interested in having sex with me? In that case, I can—”

What he can do gets smothered by the palm placed across his mouth. 

“Stop talking craziness. I’ll worry you hit your head, too,” a stern Bartimaeus tells Nathaniel before allowing his hand to go lax, to drift over Nathaniel’s cheek. Down his chin. He follows the tendons that comprise Nathaniel’s neck, the crest of his clavicle, lower, lower, lower. 

And all the while, Bartimaeus watches his sauntering fingers, because sometimes it is easier to speak to Nathaniel when he doesn’t have to look into those damn blue eyes. 

“Look,” he mutters meekly, “just… _okay?_” 

His finger dips into Nathaniel’s belly button. It’s not even a poke, really. 

The politician cocks his head, musing. Bemused. 

“…let’s hear your conditions, Bartimaeus.”

Bolstered by this encouragement, Bartimaeus sits up, slipping on his usual suave smile. Long legs shift behind Nathaniel; the assassin crosses his ankles more comfortably as they settle in for this conversation. 

“One,” Bartimaeus enumerates, “this is a big, well-furnished house. We have multiple bedrooms and multiple beds. So. Our first time together is _not_ going to be against this wall, or on the floor.”

Nathaniel meets the assassin’s stalwart gaze with one of his own. “What about our second time?” 

Realistically, the only thing that _should_ surprise Bartimaeus is the way that he continues to be surprised by Nathaniel’s ability to surprise him. Yet here he is, surprised. Amused, too, he realizes. Thrilled? That’s certainly part of the molten static suffusing his limbs. Also present is veneration, curiosity, shock, and unhealthy levels of arousal. But the surprise remains notable, if only for the obvious delight it brings Nathaniel.

“I’d say that _feels_ like a yes.” 

“We can negotiate kinks later,” Bartimaeus promises convivially. Also— he’d argue— with a commendable degree of composure. You know, when one takes into account that his cock had nearly just Hulk-ripped through the front of his sweatpants. “Put it in the queue with the golden syrup thing.” 

“Before or after light bondage? Because I’ve got _ideas_ about you, a bedpost, and that bowtie.” 

“_Nathaniel_—!” It’s meant to be a reprimand. It _should_ be a reprimand. It comes out like a whimper, and it is only by desperately tensing every single muscle in his body that nothing else comes out with it. _Fuck_. Sweat dappled upon his brow, the assassin levels his charge a reproachful glare. “You _brat._” 

For his part, Nathaniel seems more pleased than remorseful. What a jerk. Everyone knows saying things like _that_ in moments like _this_ isn’t fair. Or allowed. Geez, the audacity of some people. 

Sulking, Bartimaeus rests his forehead against his unrepentant companion’s. For reasons of stress, of course. His moue is more effectively seen, this way. “_Second_,” he perseveres, now with a dash of petulance thrown into the virulent mix that are his emotions, “I… you have to let me kiss you.” 

This, far more than Bartimaeus’ pout, brings Nathaniel to a pause. 

“…you have to ask?” he frowns. A shadow of anxiety has manifested in the pinch between Nathaniel’s brows, its darkness threatening the light of previous, teasing expressions. “I rather thought I made it clear that I—”

“No! No— _yes_. Yes, you did,” Bartimaeus frantically amends, fingers weaving through Nathaniel’s rumpled hair. The assassin’s face is beginning to burn again; Bartimaeus can feel it, and hopes that Nathaniel might feel it, too. That he might fathom, somehow, the full truth of what is going on in Bartimaeus’ heart, even though Bartimaeus can, at present, only offer up parts of its sum. “But I— I mean all over. _All over_. Every scrape, each bruise. From biggest to smallest and not necessarily in order. I want to kiss them all,” he confesses softly. Then softer. Then softer still, until the words would be impossible to hear had they not been sharing the same air. “It sounds stupid, I _know_ that— this is me admitting that— but it will… it will make me feel better. Please,” Bartimaeus begs, “please. I almost lost you today, Nathaniel. Please just… let me. All right?”

Beneath the shell of his ear, Nathaniel’s heartbeat pounds. Deafens. _It really is_, Bartimaeus acknowledges, _so strong_. Stronger than he is, no doubt. Nathaniel is strong enough to break him. Could do so easily, if he wanted to.

But— _incredibly_— Nathaniel doesn’t want to. 

Instead, Nathaniel holds him. Holds him close. 

Holds him together. 

“All right,” Nathaniel says, in that simple way one does when they understand the grandiosity of what they are agreeing to. Which doesn’t seem possible, considering all that Bartimaeus is. Given all that Bartimaeus needs. 

_And yet…_

Although the assassin believes in neither God nor prayer, there is benediction in the lips that grace his own with a kiss. He feels truly blessed. _If there is salvation anywhere,_ Bartimaeus thinks, _it lives in this boy’s smile._

And if there is damnation, it hides in that same boy’s smirk. In the way that he leans back, moving with the sinuous elegance of a serpent.

“_Oh_…” 

Eyes glittering, amethyst glinting, Nathaniel cocks his head and lilts, “Of course, compromise works both ways. I have some demands of my own, Bartimaeus.”

“Y-yeah?” R.I.P. to the butterflies who had taken residence in Bartimaeus’ stomach. They are all ablaze, now. Lungs full of their smoke, he chokes, “Like what?”

“Four things.” In a way that is both distinctly and appropriately devilish, Nathaniel reaches out, gathering Bartimaeus’ right hand in his own. Like a plaything, he toys with it. Inspects a pinkie nail, tests out a knuckle. Then, while unfurling Bartimaeus’ index, ring, and middle fingers, he lists: “One. Two. Three.” 

The assassin’s mouth goes exquisitely dry. He is, as the kids say, parched. Dehydrated. Never been thirstier in his entire damn life. But as a matter of principal, he feels obligated to mention, “You said four.” 

A haughty brow is arched. Nathaniel grinds eloquently down. 

“_Aah._” To have one’s brain short circuit is a curious thing. Bartimaeus can only hope there is no lasting damage. “G-got it,” he says, still twitching, electric, and with a tongue that tastes faintly singed. “After some careful deliberation, I believe… I can get behind this… arrangement.”

“Excellent.” Nathaniel nod his satisfaction, the perfect representation of a government official at the end of a challenging negotiation. Well, with the notable exception of his state of undress. And the fact that he is astride a professional killer. Crisply, he adds, “Now then. As we appear to have reached an agreement, might I suggest you seal the deal before I change my mi—?”

Despite what jealous associates may claim, Bartimaeus has never missed a mark in his life. He’s an expert, after all. He’s got integrity. He’s dedicated. Retired or not, he doesn’t plan to start slacking off now. Nope. 

And so, with boundless enthusiasm, Bartimaeus commits himself to doling out the first of many, many little deaths.

-

-

-

“You’re the reason that people get rottweilers, you know.”

Ptolemy, unperturbed, continues to lick at Bartimaeus’ fingers. Given his stature, this should be an impressive feat. Except it’s not, of course, because Bartimaeus’ hand is dangling off the side of the bed, just within the corgi’s limited field of vision. It would be nice if this were Ptolemy’s version of an affectionate wakeup call, but Bartimaeus isn’t fooled; his canine appeal begins and ends with the leftover taste of golden syrup. 

The dog moves on to his wrist. Bartimaeus continues:

“I’ve been involved in a decent number of disreputable affairs,” he mumbles, equally to the dog and to his pillow. “Espionage. Murder. Pillaging. Musical theater. But nothing as loud and… let’s say _animated_… as what went down last night. And you gave exactly zero shits, didn’t you, boy? Your master’s up here howling his head off and you were probably downstairs making a mess on another rug.” Bartimaeus pauses. Yawns. “…in which case, I _do_ hope it’s zero shits you gave.”

Forever hunting for additional attention, and smart enough to realize that his choices are limited at 6 AM, Ptolemy noses at the assassin’s hanging hand. Nudges it, purposeful, until Bartimaeus’ palm is atop his head. The puppy pants, expectant. 

“You’re not even supposed to be in here,” Bartimaeus points out. So he rewards the corgi with a few lazy pats, watching tufts of golden fur shift beneath his hand like sand. And sunlight. No, wait, that’s _actual_ sunlight, which should also not be in the room. But the curtains had been ‘disturbed’ a few hours previous, allowing the dawn’s diaphanous radiance to pour unimpeded through the windows. 

One ray bleaches Ptolemy’s contours. The rest grant the morning a transplendent, nigh-ethereal quality. 

Bartimaeus smiles to feel that same white warmth leeching into his skin. Everything feels soft. And not just because of the light, or the bed, or the dog. Or the way that his afterglow transmuted his muscles and bones to toasted marshmallows, though that last thing definitely helps. 

“I think it’s going to be a good day.” 

In agreement, Ptolemy yips, spins in a circle, and trundles on his merry doggie way. Probably off to lick himself, or something. Which Bartimaeus can respect. 

With his hand thus relinquished, the assassin reaches for his nightstand, smacking blindly for the phone charging atop it. This is a morning worth memorializing. Sex hair makes for great selfies, after all. Especially when it’s not _really_ a selfie that you’re taking, but a candid photo of your boyfriend dreaming beside you.

Grinning in anticipation, Bartimaeus unlocks his phone to access his camera—

-

**[6 Unread Messages]**

🐕**Nathaniel Being Human**🍽️  
Rebecca, Kitty, You

**Rebecca**  
Bartimaeus, did you and Mr. Underwood  
make it home safely?  
22:06

**Kitty**  
I’m sure they were safe getting home.  
I just hope they’re being “safe” right now.  
22:38

**Rebecca**  
Miss Jones!  
22:43

**Kitty**  
Don’t @ me, Becky.  
22:45  
He’s not responding to our texts  
and you know damn well why.  
22:46  
I bet you 5 pounds he even  
used the “safe” joke himself,  
at some point.  
22:48

**[Today]**

**Bartimaeus**  
Good morning, ladies!  
6:16  
(It is a very good morning.)  
6:17  
To answer your questions:  
Rebecca, we made it home safely.  
Kitty… we made it home safely.  
6:17  
Sorry for not saying anything  
earlier, I was busy.  
Had my hands full.  
And other things.  
You know how it goes.  
6:18  
Oh!  
Before I forget.  
6:19  
Rebecca, do you have any extra  
cushions in the office?  
6:19  
Maybe throw a couple onto Nat’s  
desk chair before he comes in?  
6:20  
For reasons.  
6:20

Kitty is typing…  
Rebecca is typing…

**Bartimaeus**  
Anywaygottagobye! 💖  
6:20

-

Silencing his cell to all incoming messages, Bartimaeus sits up— tousle-haired, beaming, and utterly nude— and takes a moment to indulge in the fuzzies that come from a job well-done. Yup. A good day, indeed; that’s his official assessment. And with Nathaniel curled beside him— cuddled up like a caterpillar in an eiderdown cocoon—, it seems to Bartimaeus that it will only get better from here.

“Provided,” he reminds himself, “that we find the rest of the syrup before the ants do…” 

But hey. Ants aren’t that smart. Or directionally gifted. There’ll be time for that later. 

So with an idle toss of his phone, Bartimaeus flops contentedly down, throws a leg over Nathaniel’s hip, and like his boyfriend, goes back to sleep.

-

(They get ants.)

\---


End file.
